Watting Warbler
The women of Songhai village. Their skin fair, almost luminous, like the moon reflected in the river water. The men say: “it's the source.”
They walk up, descend to the village well.
“Mountain water doesn’t lie,” they say.
They use nothing. No soap, no shampoo. Just water, and their hands.
Every morning, before sunrise, Yan Ning kneels by the wooden well, plunges her hands into the cold water, washes her face. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to.
Around her, the other women are there too. They laugh, chat, rinse their hair. The water slowly runs down their arms.
Yan Ning stays back. She observes. She never stays long.
Spring arrives. The peach trees blossom, the air thickens. The world seems slower.
But while the others work in the fields or workshops, Yan Ning goes out at night. She walks alone.
They say she comes back changed. Even quieter.
One day, her mother waits for her. She says nothing. Just a look. Yan Ning understands.
She leaves.
Years later, someone recognizes her. Sitting by a window, still. Her skin still fair, but different.
They still hear about her, sometimes. But never for long.
Like a fleeting presence. A faint trace.
